


Bailing

by littlemiss_m



Series: HOME, a series [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Dad!Cor, Gen, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 13:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13788867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: Prompto runs away for the night to avoid his father. Hours later, Cor gets called to a police station.





	Bailing

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Prompto and Noctis' second year of high school.

It's never a good thing when a national holiday overlaps with his dad's downtime because national holidays mean no school and no Noctis. This time it's even worse than usual because it's October and October means Prompto's birthday, but also his mother's, and his dad avoids dealing with all of it by getting as drunk as he can. Not for the first time, Prompto sneaks out of the house early in the day, spends his hours wandering around the cityscape camera in hand.

Usually, on days like these, when he can't go home, Prompto mooches of off Noct's benevolence. When that's not possible, he hangs out at the library till it's closing time, then heads for some burger joint for dinner, and when the staff inevitably kicks him out, it's time to hit a movie theater for a midnight showing. There's always something going on in Insomnia; like the name suggests, the city never sleeps – or that's what he thought, anyways.

The Day of the Innocent is a nation-wide holiday. Like so many others, it's important enough that Noctis has to stand next to his father, somber-faced, as they commemorate everything from stillborn babies to police officers and soldiers dead in the line of duty. The mood is quiet and respectful around the city, everyone sitting at home with candles burning as they remembers the lost. Only a few shops are open until noon, so Prompto buys a premade sandwich, some crisps, and a bottle of apple juice, determined to make them last. Even the buses and trains run on a holiday schedule and when Prompto checks his phone, he can only curse. All public transportation will be cut off at six.

If it was summer, it wouldn't be such a big deal, but it's autumn and the weather is getting cold. Prompto has a puffy coat thrown over his clothes but his toes are already freezing and it's just past five. He doesn't want to go home till morning at the earliest. John is always more tolerable after a night of getting wasted, though ever since he found out about Prompto literally saving Noct's life, he's been even more irritable than usual. He seems to understand when Prompto cries about not wanting someone's blood on his hands (nevermind that he killed twice that day), but he still thinks Prompto shouldn't have been hanging out with Noctis in the first place.

Prompto doesn't know what he'll do when it inevitably leaks out that he's best friends with Noct.

It's just past five on a national holiday two days after Prompto's fifteenth birthday, and he has nowhere to go. He stares at his phone, tries to think, comes up with nothing – Noct is unavailable, and so are Ignis and Gladio by default, and that's the end of his list of friends. A chilly wind tousles his hair and he entertains the thought of calling Cor, or even Clarus. In the end, he's too ashamed to do it. They're probably busy anyways.

Prompto walks home. It takes time – usually he'd take the bus – but the excercise has the additional benefit of warming him up, at least a little. He passes his block and heads for the nearest park instead, thinking that if the weather gets too intolerable, he can always try sneaking back into the house. He doesn't think he will, but it's an option and options are good to have.

The park is empty and Prompto curls up under a children's play slide. Some other teenagers have been there before him, the plastic walls full of obscene drawings and shout-outs, and he snaps a picture of a particularly innovative insult. He eats his sandwich and tries to level up his King's Knight character, but his fingers are too cold and he has to stop.

He doesn't cry. He does pull his coat over his knees and fold his hands into his armpits in a desperate attempt to resist the chill, but it's not very effective. The slide keeps the wind from blowing at him but the ground under his bum is cold and soon the chill has seeped into his very bones.

The playground clock reads half past eleven when Prompto looks up to see a man in a navy uniform approach him. He considers running but doesn't, because he's a Niff and freshly fifteen and best friends with the prince, and everything in his life is a reason to not get in trouble.

The cop walks straight up to him.

* * *

The kid's decent enough, polite and well-mannered despite his reluctance to answer any questions. Zed is pretty sure he's trying not to lie either, which is usually good, but it just means the kid stays silent, embarrassed and scared but still not willing to talk. They're in a room at the station, the bullpen almost empty behind the windows. The kid sits on the floor, leaning against the heater, and sips at a cup of hot cocoa Zed gave him earlier.

Zed is young; he's only been working as a police officer for two or so years. He's about 100% sure he's looking at a runaway. He sighs and goes for the trump card. ”Listen, kid, I'm really sorry to say this but it's either you start talking or I give social services a call.”

The kid makes a pained sound in his throat and looks at Zed with a face like a kicked puppy. ”Can't you just let me go?” he tries to plead, again. It hasn't worked before and it doesn't work now. ”I promise I won't get in trouble.”

”I really can't do that,” Zed tries to apologize. ”If you were an adult we wouldn't even be having this conversation, but I'm pretty sure you're not eighteen yet. A minor in a situation like this, you gotta understand it's a bit worrisome.”

The kid looks just about ready to cry. He doesn't have any visible injuries and that combined with the good behavior is pretty much the only reason Zed hasn't called in a social worker to take over. He can see the kid is trying to say something, trying to think of an explanation or another plea, but in the end there's nothing more he can say to Zed's words.

”Did you get into a fight with your family or something?” Zed tries. The boy nods, slowly.

”I'm a teenager,” he says. ”I was gonna go home tomorrow morning, really.” Zed almost doesn't think anything of the phrasing but then he realizes that teenagers are _expected_ to fight with their parents, and suddenly the answer sounds a lot more like an evasion than it did before.

”Right. So you don't want to go home.” The kid nods. ”Is there anyone else I can call?”

It takes some prompting but eventually the kid gives in and rattles out a phone number. Zed punches it in and tilts the screen so the kid can confirm it's correct, and then he makes to leave the room. The kid speaks up before he gets the door open. ”That's the right number,” he says. Zed thinks it's a bit odd, especially after they already checked the number, but doesn't say anything.

He sits at his desk and hits call. Someone answers in seconds. ”Marshal Cor Leonis speaking.”

Zed almost falls of his chair. For a second, he's about to apologize for calling the wrong number, but the words 'that's the right number' ring in his mind and he knows he's got the right person. If he leans back in his chair and cranes his neck, he can see the kid sitting still in the room, huddled into a little ball between two armchairs. They share a look and Zed takes a hasty breath just as Marshal Leonis repeats his greetings.

”Ah, pardon me!” Zed gasps. He's not freaking out, not at all. ”This is officer Zed Wyss from the Central Police Station. I have a teenage boy here, blond, blue eyes, who gave me your number.”

”Prompto?” Leonis asks immediately, sounding worried. ”What happened? Is he in trouble?”

”Oh, no sir, he's okay,” Zed hurries. ”It's actually not a crime to be loitering in a park at night, no matter what the grandmas say, but seeing as he's still a minor...”

Leonis sighs into the phone. ”I understand,” he says. ”I can be there in thirty minutes.”

”That would be great, thanks. I'm sorry, but what did you say his name was? He's refused to answer any of my questions – nice kid, otherwise, but a bit too stubborn if you ask me.”

”Prompto Argentum,” Leonis replies. ”Do you need his ID as well?”

Zed does. He feeds it into the computer and nods as soon as he sees the adress, recognizing the same neighborhood where he found the kid. At a glance, he can't spot any mention of Leonis in Prompto's file. ”Sir, if I may ask, how do you know him?”

”I'm his godfather.” There's the sound of a door slamming shut and a ping Zed thinks must be from an elevator. Leonis sighs, again, and the sound is just as horrible as it was the first time. ”What's the situation like, really? You say you found him in the park...”

”Um, yes, that's about the gist of it,” Zed stammers. ”He says he had a fight with his folks – oh, his father, looks like. He's not injured as far as I could see, but, uh, I'm pretty sure I should be calling in a social worker.”

”Yeah. Listen, I'm in the car now, I'll be there in twenty. Can we finish this conversation then?”

”Of course, sir. We'll be waiting.”

After the call, Zed can only stare at the computer screen before him. When his boss – a nice man who for some reason actually _likes_ working nights – strolls over, he's still scrolling through Prompto's file, feeling almost numb.

”Did you catch his guardians?” his boss asks.

”I talked to his godfather,” Zed says. He pauses his scrolling and clicks open a note from the previous spring. ”Marshal Leonis. He's the godfather. I talked to Marshal Cor Leonis.”

His boss says something but Zed doesn't hear it, too caught in reading through the note. ”Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking shit,” he curses, grabbing at his hair. ”That's the kid who saved Prince Noctis' life last spring, when some kidnappers stormed the school. Oh fucking shit, boss, how is this my life?”

His boss doesn't have the answer.

* * *

Cor is not a happy man at the moment. He parks his car outside the police station and gets out, almost fuming in a mixture of anger and worry. The front door is unlocked and he steps right in, following a line painted on the floor until he reaches the bullpen. He can't see Prompto anywhere, only three officers, but one of them stands up and waves him over to his desk.

”Marshal,” the man greets, offering a handshake. ”Zed Wyss, we spoke on the phone earlier. Thank you for coming over. Prompto's in the room over there.”

Cor glances at the room, unable to see past the closed blinds. ”Has his father been informed?”

”No sir, not yet. I thought it best to get a better understanding of the situation before making any calls.”

”Right.” Cor doesn't know how to have this conversation, but Wyss appears almost eager to get started.

”So, uh, he's basically ran away from home for the night, which is... normal enough for teenagers that it's not usually much of an issue. The way he acts, though, like he's actually _afraid_ of going home – that's what has me worried.” Wyss pauses for a moment. ”Do you know if he's having problems at home?”

It's a question Cor himself has pondered many a time, and one he still can't answer. ”Prompto and John do not get along at all,” he starts slowly. ”John also works at one of the sea power plants off the coast, so he's away from home a lot. I've been... hoping it was just animosity between the two of them, but I honestly cannot say.”

Wyss sighs and the conversation halts for a moment. Cor tries to collect his thoughts, tries to understand. ”Do you think you could get him to talk honestly, if you asked him?” Wyss asks. Cor shakes his head.

”I've tried to prod at the issue before and it's not happening. I'm not the only one who's worried either. There are several people at the Citadel willing to lend him an ear, all the way to the King, but he's not ready.”

Wyss looks a little stupefied. ”I really should call the social services, but...”

”He's not ready,” Cor repeats. ”Getting the authorities involved would not only destroy what's left of his and John's relationship, but also shatter his trust in all the adults around him. It's taken us a year to get where he are, and apparently he still doesn't trust us enough to ask for help.”

By all rights, he shouldn't be talking the officer out of calling in a social worker; it's something he probably should have done by now, as soon as they started having hushed conversations behind Prompto's back. They all know he's unhappy at home, just as they know John is rarely ever around, but they also know that a teenage boy not getting along with his father really isn't that abnormal. They only have their suspicions, and so, ten minutes later Cor pulls Prompto against his side and walks him out of the police station.

* * *

The ride to Cor's apartment begins quiet, and it's not the good kind of quiet either. Prompto picks at the hem of his coat and regrets everything he's done in the past twenty-four hours. They stop at traffic lights and Cor sighs, a horrible sound that feels like a knife in Prompto's chest.

”Did you lose your phone?” Cor asks. He doesn't sound angry, though it's mostly because he doesn't sound much like anything.

Prompto swallows. ”No,” he whispers.

”Did it run out of batteries?”

Green lights flash and the car motor roars. The roads are almost empty around them, emptier than Prompto has ever seen them before. Ahead, the next set of traffic lights switches to green and Cor speeds through them.

”No,” Prompto answers. He should have called.

Cor is silent for a while. ”I got a call from the police in the middle of the night,” he begins. ”Nothing unusual, that happens every now and then. Then the officer describes you and tells me you're at the station. He didn't even have a name to give me and for a second, I thought I was being called to identify a body.”

A steady pressure begins to build behind Prompto's eyes. He blinks, tries to chase the feeling away. ”I'm sorry,” he murmurs.

They're almost at Cor's apartment complex, the stretch of the park a dark shadow in the night. Cor parks the car next to the jungle gym and Prompto shivers despite the warm air blowing at his face. There's a question hanging in the air, one that Cor obviously wants to ask, but it's also one Prompto doesn't want to hear and they both know it.

”Prompto,” Cor eventually sighs, hands braced against the steering wheel even though the car is already still. ”I'm worried about you.”

Prompto has spent almost a decade trying to not give people reason to worry. ”We just got into a fight, that's all. Usually I'll–” he says, then cuts himself off when he realizes what he's done. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cor turn to face him.

”Usually?” Cor repeats. ”So this isn't the first time you've ran away? Shiva's tits, kid, is that how bad things are? Is–”

Prompto doesn't want to hear anything more. ”It's October!” he cries out, almost shouting. Cor stops mid-sentence and stares at him, clearly not comprehending. ”It was mom's birthday yesterday – the day before yesterday.”

Cor sighs, covers his face with his palms. He sits like that for a moment but then he unbuckles his seatbelt and they leave the car. Prompto stuffs his hands in his pockets to escape the cold – to think he actually thought he'd be able to last throughout the night! – and follows Cor inside the building and up to the the ninth floor.

”I'm guessing you haven't eaten much today,” Cor says calmly once they've stepped inside the apartment.

”I had a sandwich and some crisps,” Prompto answers, shrugging. He's hungry but too embarrassed to admit it. He still has half of the apple juice sloshing around in his bag; despite the sweetness, the cold drink had only made him feel worse.

”Right. I'll get you something to eat.”

Cor moves to dig through his freezer and Prompto follows him, looking around. The last time he visited, he spent most of the time locked in the guest room and when he _did_ venture out of his bed, it was to beg Cor to take him back to Noct. Now, he watches as Cor dumps a frozen chunk of something in a small pan and sets it on the stove to heat. The kitchen is small and a bit dated, but functional, everything arranged neatly. Prompto inches past the dining table and towards the living room. Cor doesn't stop him.

The living room isn't much bigger than the kitchen. Bookshelves line the walls and a large couch takes most of the remaining space. There are a lot of photographs everywhere, set on shelves and framed on the wall; wherever Prompto looks, he sees pictures of people. Arranged like this, they're meant to be noticed, so he steps to the bookshelves and takes in the sights.

Some of the photos are formal portraits, usually of Cor and an assortment of others, either Clarus and Regis or a bunch of Crownsguards. There's one that Prompto recognizes in a flash, a wide class portrait from the year Cor finished his Crownsguard training; teenage Cor stands out between men several years older than him. There are only three women in the picture, and Prompto's dad is standing next to one of them.

He almost doesn't notice his parents' wedding photograph sitting on a lower shelf. Prompto picks it up, startled, and stares at the smiling faces. He's in the picture, too, held between his mother and father, dressed in a tiny little baby tux. Cor looks impossibly young and fresh-faced next to John, grinning and even a little teary-eyed. The maid of honor has a familiar air to her, though Prompto can't recognize her. She must have been one of his mother's friends.

Cor wanders over when Prompto spots a photograph taken in his own kitchen. There's a group of men seated around the dining table, all of them bruised but grinning. Not all of them look familiar so it's probably an older picture, from a time when Prompto was too young to remember the faces of all his uncles.

”Why do you still have these up?” he asks.

There's a small smile on Cor's face when he replies. ”Good memories,” is all he says; ”just because some of them have left my life doesn't mean they never existed in the first place.”

Prompto falls silent for a moment. He recognizes his father and Cor, and a man with red hair, though he doesn't know why. ”What happened to everyone?” he asks quietly. ”I remember that every time someone stopped coming over, dad would just tell me they retired or moved elsewhere, but...”

Cor sighs. ”It's a bit of both,” he says. ”Some died, others quit. Dustin here still works right by my side.”

He taps one of the men and Prompto blinks. He knows the name but not the person, black hair and glasses completely unfamiliar to him. From the kitchen, a timer beeps and Cor claps his shoulder. ”Food's ready.”

They both sit at the table though only Prompto eats. He's handed a bowl of chili and instant rice; the chili is great but the rice is awful, plain and mushy and disgustingly chewy. He's starving, though, and the chili itself tastes good enough to make up for the rice. Even as he eats, Prompto can't stop thinking about the photographs, the dustless frames in carefully arranged groups.

”I used to think you were the coolest person ever,” he blurts out suddenly. ”I mean, I still do, but back then. You were awesome.”

For a second, Cor looks astonished, but then he smiles in a way that makes his entire face wrinkle. ”Yeah?” he says. ”You were always a good kid, too.”

A sudden onslaught of tears burns Prompto's eyes. He blinks and swallows a spoonful of chili. ”I, um, after mom died, I got really confused when you stopped showing up,” he says softly. ”At first, I thought you were maybe mad at me or something, but then dad had to explain to me what it means when someone dies, and then I thought you'd died too.”

”Shit, kid. You know I – you know what happened between John and I, don't you?”

Prompto laughs but the sound comes out wet. He's crying. ”Yeah, yeah, I know,” he huffs. ”I asked dad if you were dead and he got so mad, I'd never seen anything like that. He – he called you a lot of really nasty things and told me I wasn't allowed to ever talk to you again.”

Cor stares at him from across the table. Prompto still has half of his meal left but he's too upset to eat so he pushes the bowl away. Finally, Cor gets up and pulls him to his feet. ”Come on,” he says, leading Prompto to the guest room. ”There's something I want you to see.”

It's sudden enough that Prompto feels himself calming down slightly, too curious to be upset anymore. In the guest room, Cor empties the top of the dresser and pulls it away from the wall, confusing Prompto who can't find any reason for his actions. A moment later, Cor steps away from the dresser and he sees.

There's a drawing low on the wall, made with colorful markers and framed. It's a child's work, Prompto thinks, squiggly and messy, but he can make out a big yellow bird next to a man-shaped black shadow wearing red shoes. He looks at Cor, whose smile is a touch embarrassed but no less genuine. ”Wait here,” he says, then leaves the room.

Prompto sits down on the floor by the drawing and touches his fingertips to the lines. They don't smear anymore, too old and permanent. Up close, he can see the small white sticker placed on the wall above the frame.

 _Prompto Argentum_  
_Four years old_  
_”Coco 'n Boco”_

A moment later, Cor returns with an old shoebox, and Prompto is back to crying against his knees. A warm weight settles on his shoulder after Cor sits down next to him, rattling the box. Prompto can guess what's inside.

”I just missed you so much,” he sobs. Cor tugs at him until he's crying against his shoulder.

”The feeling's mutual, kid, the feeling's mutual...”

* * *

Prompto stays for the night and most of the day, then takes the bus to Noct's apartment for a sleepover. By the time Monday rolls around, school is back and John is gone, and Prompto knows Cor's guest room is already becoming his room. He has to promise that he'll call Cor if he needs a place to stay, but in turn Cor has to promise that he won't try to make Prompto talk unless he thinks he's injured or in actual danger.

It sounds good in theory, but the mere existence of such plans is a sign that Prompto's life is already unraveling.


End file.
